A Force of Nature
by lastcrazyhorn
Summary: Spencer wants. Hotch doesn't give so much as he just doesn't say no. I suppose it's technically dub-con . . . technically. Take as you will.
1. Force

A Force of Nature

**Warning:** Awkward writing style. It's like my brain is exploding outwards through my fingers and this is the result. Stream of consciousness, except with slightly more direction.

"I want you," was all that Spencer said to him before moving from sitting casually _just_ beside him to sitting _on_ him. His long arms were wrapped around Hotch's neck, and his thin chest was pressed up against the front of Hotch's own.

All told, Hotch was too shocked to move, too shocked to react, too shocked to even make a sound as Spencer's lips connected with his own, barely able to breathe as Spencer took control of his mouth.

Lips sliding open, tongue demanding entrance to his own mouth, and he gasped at the feel of a hand trailing down his torso. The feel of that tongue was now in his mouth, rubbing sensuously against his own, Spencer's hand opening the buttons on his shirt and pushing up his undershirt with more ease than he typically saw—or _felt_—from the BAU's resident genius.

Still too shocked to say anything, to move; hell, hardly enough brain cells to rub together to remember to _breathe, _and Spencer was biting down on his lower lip, pulling it painfully away from his teeth with sharp incisors that he couldn't really remember the other man having. Of course, it's not as though he had previously made it a very stringent practice of looking into his subordinate's mouths and examining their _teeth_, but that was also clearly not here nor there.

Especially with Spencer's hand on his chest, twisting and pulling on the few hairs surrounding his nipples, and he gasped at the feel of thin legs—thin _thighs—_squeezing around his waist, a hot body pushing up into his _own_.

He also wasn't particularly used to the sensation of another man's erection pushing up against his stomach, its heat and strength trapped by Spencer's trousers, the feel of a _man_ groaning against his lips, against his neck, against his _fucking_ chest.

"I _want _you," Spencer groaned against him again, leaning down and sucking hard against his chest, against the spot where his arm met his chest, just above his underarm. Sucking hard enough to be a bite, sucking hard enough to make his shoulder jerk, his shoulder blade twitch forwards into that mouth, that fucking _mouth_.

Hotch was completely overwhelmed by the ferocity and seemingly spontaneity of Spencer's full body attack against him. Unable to respond intelligently, almost as though his body had disconnected with his mind, leaving him with little more than trembling nerve endings and desperate and nonsensical gibbering sounds that he barely recognized as coming from _his own _mouth.

Spencer's tongue sliding down the centre line of his chest, a shift as Spencer's hips pushed up into the air and then _off, _his mouth biting and sucking down to his stomach, his tongue _thrusting_—fuck—into his belly button, in and out. Abruptly, Hotch's mind switched from wondering just when the last time that he had thoroughly washed out said belly button to the realisation that Spencer's thin fingers were snapping open _his_ trousers.

"Spencer," he managed to say, his head falling backwards onto the cushion as Spencer pulled his zipper down with his _teeth_.

"I don't—," he tried to say. _I don't want you? I don't want this? I don't want to see your lips stretched obscenely wide around my dick?_

"Shh," Spencer hushed him softly, seeing through him with the ease of a genius profiler and what he had thought was his _friend_, only a friend.

"I'm not—," Hotch tried again, picking his head up and squinting down at the man in front of him with some kind of authority. _Not gay _was what he tried to make himself say, but it wasn't coming out, especially as Spencer pulled Hotch's cock free of his boxers, not completely hard, but not flaccid either; interested but not convinced, much like the rest of him seemed to be.

"You don't have to be," Spencer answered with, whispering just against him, against a part of him that had never been in such close quarters with a man before; making him shiver in turn, making his dick twitch.

There was only a hairbreadth of time between hearing Spencer's words and seeing his bright red tongue coming out to lick him like some kind of damned _lollipop_. He felt his breath stutter in his lungs, felt his chest flinch, every feeling pushing itself harder into his cock, into the heat and the wet _tightness _that was Spencer's _mouth_.

"F-F-Fuck!" He cried out, helpless at the sight and the feel of _that_ mouth around him.

Seeing Spencer smiling around him, seeing the sight of him swallowing down around him, the feel of a wet finger sliding back past his balls, touching a place that normally only saw attention in the shower under the administrations of a damned _washcloth_.

That wet finger was pushing past his balls, to the dark spot between his legs that no one ever saw, that he never thought about unless something wasn't _working_; making him gasp with the realisation of what Spencer was going to do, going to do without even a grunt of approval from _Hotch_, the one having it done _to_.

"Ngh," he managed to say, not cognizant enough to make _actual_ sense as the tip of Spencer's tongue swirled around the head of his cock, into the slit itself, sucking hard against the pre-come that he hadn't actually been aware of producing.

The feel of Spencer's thin finger pushing up into him burning at the base of his spine, Spencer's other hand hooked under one of his knees, pulling his ass off of the couch and into better position for whatever else the man wanted to do to him. Hotch could feel his heart rate skyrocketing, the sweat beading on his lip, a moan working its way through this chest, but not actually releasing; just intense enough to cut into his breathing, into his lungs and his air and his intake of oxygen.

And he can smell himself, smell his sweat, smell his cock as it is being worked hard in Spencer's slick mouth; he can smell his skin and the tight hole that is being opened up by two of his subordinate's insistent fingers. He can smell _Spencer, _and without even looking, he can tell that the other man is close to coming.

Any thoughts he might have had of stopping this, stopping this _before_—have flown out of his mind, and all he can think of now is release, of need, desperate need. Spencer seems to know that, even as he sucks hard one last time, pushing his legs open farther as he jabs those fingers up into him painfully, finding that _one spot_ of not pain, of good, of incredible wonderful moan-worthy amazingness.

And he thrusts up hard, not caring that he can feel the top of his dick being scraped by not quite covered teeth, not caring that Spencer's two fingers are in up to the knuckles; not caring that he hasn't actually agreed to this, this act of not quite gay sex with his not quite gay friend. He's past caring as he feels his dick jerking, coming and being _fucking swallowed_—and holy hell, that's _hot_—the splash of cum against his legs, against his trousers, against his _shoes_ and maybe even dripping down a bit into his socks, and he still doesn't give a damn.

Not even splayed open and vulnerable and wonderfully sated and even a bit painful as his dick is slowly released from Spencer's mouth; those fingers, those disobedient, incredibly awful, far reaching fingers sliding from his ass and into the light, into their view, into his _sight_, leaving a legacy of stretching pain and magnificent heights behind within the memory of his skin.

And he knows that he's going to regret this, regret not saying no, regret his weakness at being _used_ for pleasure, even if his own is inexorably wrapped up into the same experience, even if he got _off_ on it, even if it was wasn't his own _damned_ idea.


	2. Discombobulated

**Chapter 2 – Discombobulated**

_A few weeks later . . ._

Hotch was sitting in a meeting with his team, sitting and talking about the latest group of _victims_, when he felt Spencer's leg against his own. Just a touch, just a brief, seemingly arbitrary touch—except for the very real fact that it's _not_, not anything of the sort, really.

And that's all it takes, all it takes to send him back to his apartment, to the memory of their previous night. He can feel the hand shaped bruise on his right side, just under his ribs, from where Spencer pushed him down on the floor and held him down as he attacked his spine with his mouth.

The very real sensation of another man's weight holding him down, keeping him stationary as a wet mouth trailed up and down against the length of his back, his body tense as he remembered the last time he had been held down in this very apartment.

"Sh," Spencer's mouth had whispered against his neck, sending chills through him, as he had realised that his fears had been a little more obvious that he would have preferred.

That has nothing to do with why he's still allowing Reid—_Spencer—_to be here, to _do things_ like _this _to his body. He still hasn't consented, not verbally. He still hasn't offered to do anything of the sort in _return_ to Spencer, but it doesn't actually seem to matter.

At least, not to Spencer.

He shakes his head as he comes out of the memory, trying to focus on the information that Dave is giving, trying to focus on something _other_ than the feel of Spencer's warm hand sliding down his thigh in an approximation of the way it had slid the previous night. And he'd really like to tell Spencer off for distracting him, he'd really like to shout at him and draw attention to his _completely_ inappropriate action here in the fucking _office_, but mostly he'd _really_ like Spencer to get down on his knees and suck him down again, their audience be damned.

And _fuck_, he can remember Spencer's voice, urging him to spread his legs more, urging him to _let_ himself be manipulated, be opened up wide. He remembers the first feel of Spencer's tongue pushing into his ass and the utter shock as his mind completely slid to a halt and his body just _felt_ and took as his mouth _begged_ for more and less and everything in between.

Prentiss is talking and he can't make himself care. There are pictures of mutilated bodies up on the plasma and he can't make himself care. In fact, he can feel his nausea just pushing the electric feeling in his nerves higher, and he doesn't know whether to feel sick or not. He's not sure if he's just crossed the line into demented or maybe he crossed it awhile ago, but damn, suddenly he's no longer certain whether he can make it for the rest of the meeting or not without coming in his damn pants like a teen.

And he can remember Spencer's face pushing against his ass, his brain and body revved so high that he's practically humping the carpet, pushing against the hand being held at the base of his cock, trying to get free to come, to explode, to be _done_ with this uncomfortable stretch of his ass, this uncomfortable stretch of his mind and his sensibilities and _fuck._

Spencer's hand around his hand, just under the table, and he very clearly remembers how it felt to whine with his face into the floor of his apartment, not giving a damn about the neighbours, barely aware that there's a hand trailing down the back of his leg. Suddenly the tongue in his ass is gone and he can feel the other man's cock pushing up, pushing up higher, rutting against his backside, getting off on the spot where his legs come together. There is open wet heat emanating from his cleft, made all the worse by Spencer's previous insistent tongue fucking.

The hand on his leg is moving down, wet fingers wedging between his toes, pressing into a pressure point, making his leg sing out with a sharp bolt of white hot pain. He wants Spencer off and he wants to get off and suddenly there is a cock shallowly thrusting into him, all burn and bare tip and terror in his throat at the unwanted intrusion.

He tries pulling away, but the fingers between his toes suddenly pinch down even harder than before, and there's a hard thrust _in_ and he drops his head to the side, gasping as he desperately tries to find his breath, desperately tries to find his centre of gravity, his beginning his middle—it's all muddled. Spencer leans up and bites down on his shoulder, where the corner touches his neck; all tension and trembling muscle.

The hand at the base of his cock abruptly releases and strokes him hard; more nail and hard squeezes than what he _thinks_ he needs. The cock in his ass pushes even more in, breaking his breath inwards and shoving a painful sensation into the base of his spine; the teeth in his shoulder splitting his skin, revving him still higher, and it hurts and he doesn't want it, except for the thumb insistently _grinding _against the tip of his fucking _weeping_ cock.

He barks out an epithet as the pain-pleasure mix hits the edge of his nerves and then he's thrust forwards on his knees as his mind explodes and his cock comes with a ferocity he's never yet experienced. Warm heat floods his backside, some going inside—_inside,_ damn it—but most just dripping down the back of his shaking legs, mixing with his own, sinking into the carpet.

His face is pressed against the rough threads of the carpet, and he can smell a mixture of dust and dirt and cleaner, and he'd really like to get up, remove his face from the floor, but he can't make his limbs work, can't make Spencer get off of him, can't do anything except fall to the side and curl up carefully around his softening cock, around the puddle of cum that can't quite disappear into the not-so-soft carpet under them.

Harsh breaths being pelted into his backside, hair sticking to his skin, and a hand resting possessively on his cum slick stomach combining into a whirlwind of discombobulated feelings and sated limbs desperately trying to force him into something resembling unconsciousness.

A tongue working its way over his neck, over the bite marks that are already turning purple against his skin and the knowledge that Spencer is still unmarked—at least physically.

And he wonders when he completely lost control of the situation.


	3. Regrets

"I wasn't aware you were seeing anyone." Dave's dark brown eyes staring in concern at him from across his desk.

His office door is closed-has been since Dave burst in here a minute ago demanding to see him, to talk; and then only to sit and stare and now this.

"I'm not," Hotch says, more than vaguely uncomfortable at the intense look on Dave's unblinking face.

"Then what are these?" and abruptly Dave is beside him, pulling apart his tie and opening his collar to reveal the latest wounds given to him by Spencer's far too insistent mouth.

"Don't," Hotch tries to pull away, but Dave isn't listening.

None of them are, especially not himself.

"What's going on Aaron?" And that's just pure Dave; all worry and softness and ferocious tiger all rolled into one.

He can't help but smile at his friend, because _fuck_ if he has a clue.

"Nothing," he tries to say, only to be reminded of his insistence that he is not gay, and how that doesn't seem to matter either.

"Doesn't look like nothing to me, Aaron," Dave says, opening his collar more and peering in at the top of his chest as well as his neck.

Hotch sighs and then, because he doesn't really feel like lying, not to _Dave_, he goes ahead and opens his shirt the rest of the way.

"Holy fuck Aaron," Dave exclaims breathily next to his ear; also reminding him of another whispered impact, but that one had been on his _dick_, and this one . . . no.

"Aaron," Dave's face is tight now, his hand on Hotch's shoulder, unwavering in its support of him-figurative and now literal as he slumps into Dave's side. "What's going on?"

And that's the question isn't it; the question they'd all like answered. Hotch has an idea, but it's not much beyond _I'm Spencer's new drug of choice_ and fuck if he knows how to say _that_.

"It's-," he starts to say, only to be cut off with another look from Dave.

"Don't tell me this is nothing." Dave is staring and he should be uncomfortable-more uncomfortable than he is with it, but he's not; in fact, it's far too close to relief, what he's feeling now, and he really doesn't know how to answer.

Instead he puts his head in his hands and waits as Dave drags a chair around to his side.

Dave's hand on his face, pulling his eyes towards him, and Hotch lets loose a very unmanly sounding giggle before letting his face be buried in Dave's shoulder and suddenly he understands.

The memory of Spencer burying his own face there, biting and sucking, it's like a full body sob hitting him every time the other man touches him.

"Aaron Aaron," Dave is murmurring comfortingly in his ear, and isn't that just like Dave to offer him what he needs instead of what his body wants.

_That's right, just a little wider . . . Perfect Hotch, just perfect_ Spencer's insistent voice in his ear as he opened his legs, slick finger pushing into him, ignoring his whine, ignoring the pleading quality of his voice.

"Sh, I've got you," Dave says as he begins to shake.

No, he thinks as one finger becomes two; as a mouth sucks lightly on the side of his cock; as his legs spread and tremble and he _wants_.

He's sweating, more than aware that his shirt is sticking to him obscenely like some scene out of a porno. Dave's arm is still on him as he rocks forward, not understanding the strange urge he's having to reach into his pants and jerk off _here_ in front of Dave, consequences be damned.

The full body memory of Spencer finishing with his fingers and the sight of a hard slick cock about to push into him has him gibbering with more than just unintelligibility. It's fear and he remembers trying to pull away and not being able to. Spencer's hand on his hip is unmoving, his arm pulling him closer despite his protests.

"Aaron, what are you-?"

His trousers snapping open, he's pulling his cock out right _here_ and the sound of a gasp beside him and he's not really sure if he's in the present or trapped in a memory.

Spencer's hand on his cock, dick pressing into him terrifyingly, a shuttered scream choking off in his throat-and the knowledge that he's harder right now than he's ever been in his entire life.

"Aaron, those are bite marks," is Dave's barely restrained voice cutting into his awareness as he begins stroking himself, the pain almost forgotten as his fingers push quickly over the increasing length before him.

"You need to see a doctor," Dave's hand catching his wrist and the feel of another hysterical giggle trying to make it past the obstruction in his throat.

"I need this," is Hotch's frightening answer and he wonders when Spencer took over his consciousness too.

"Aaron," and Dave's voice is more like a whine, pushing him back into his memory.

He can feel Spencer inside of his body, _fucking_ his insides steadily into a new shape. It hurts and it's too much and he can't breathe, especially not with Spencer's finger _right there_ on that spot behind his balls and it doesn't take long before he starts begging.

"Aaron," Dave's voice in his ear, hand on his wrist. "You're hurting yourself. Look down Aaron, please."

_Please_ he had begged as Spencer's thrusts had sped up, as he had bent over in an incredibly limber move and sucked Hotch into his mouth, making him scream with the duality of sensations.

He stared uncomprehendingly down at his cock, at the now familiar bite marks adorning his flesh, at the sight of blood on his fingertips and palm.

There had been blood on Spencer's cock, after he had pulled free and Hotch had slumped backwards in bed, his own dick still twitching from the force of his orgasm.

It had taken until the next day for him to discover the bite marks. And another two days had passed before he had stopped bleeding with every bowel movement.

And now Dave was worried about a little blood on his dick?

"Aaron," brown eyes staring at him in an approximation of Hotch's own pleading gaze toward Spencer.

"Who's been hurting you? Please, tell me."


	4. The Edge

**Chapter 4 – The Edge**

In the end, it was Dave that made it stop. It was Dave that confronted Spencer, suggesting he find counseling and leave Aaron alone. It was Dave who handled the paperwork when Spencer had _gracefully_ resigned, and it had been Dave who had somehow handled Strauss.

And yet, for all that he had been through, the bruises and the bites and the lack of consent, it still didn't change the fact that he missed Spencer. It didn't change the fact that what Spencer had done to him—yes, _to_ him—had managed to leave a lasting imprint on his psyche, changing Aaron for better or worse.

_Likely it was worse_, he thought as he leaned over the edge of his bathroom counter, his full body weight on its sharp corner as he furiously jacked himself off. He could feel where the edge was cutting into his skin, he could feel where he would find the bruises after, and that still didn't change the need to hurt, to feel, to _have_ this extra sensation digging into him as he tried to reach completion.

Unconsciously holding his breath, fighting against the blackness looming at the edge of his vision, his lungs burning as he moved his hand up and down his cock, jerking more than sliding, wrenching his fingers down his flesh, trying to achieve that feeling of pain-pleasure that Spencer had gotten him so very acquainted with.

Snorting in a burning breath, he reached his right hand up and shoved two shaking fingers in his mouth, licking them and remembering how Spencer's lips had looked stretched out around his _dick_. He jerked the fingers out of his mouth and trailed them downwards, over the edge of his ass as he slowly slid his legs apart. Going up on his toes now, his bruised flesh screaming at the change in angle, he traced those wet fingers around the edge of his hole once before bravely shoving them both in at the same time.

The burn was familiar. It jacked him up higher still and he pulled his fingers apart even as he felt the warmth begin to gather in his gut. His hand flying down his flesh, a fingernail sliding its edge over his tip, a scream threatening to burst from bitten lips, his lungs burning darkly in his eyes, his hole quivering and flexing over his fingers as the edge of the countertop continued to bite heatedly into the muscles of his abdomen.

And then suddenly it was enough. His body stiffened abruptly, the pain washing away in the euphoria of the orgasm that was spilling out between his calloused fingertips. The _relief _of it flashed through him, through the center of his body and out to the ends of his nerves. He could feel his chest expelling a breath and then heard himself gasp another one back in; his lungs finally beginning to restart. The warmth spread through his muscles, his feet dropping back down flat; his body sliding off the edge of the countertop as his dick finally stopped twitching with the force of his powerful release.

His knees were weak and slowly he felt himself fall backwards against the wall behind him. He could feel the rough smoothness of the wallpaper as he slid down its vertical surface; his ass finally coming to a rest on the cold linoleum, legs apart as he fought to calm his racing heart down. His hole was empty now, but he could still feel the memory of his fingers inside, pulling him apart, opening him up for something else.

His stomach was beginning to ache where the countertop had bitten deeply into his flesh, and if he squinted through the harsh light of the florescent bulb still shining overhead, he could see the dark line of bruises that would be even more visible the next day. The muscles in his legs felt like tapioca and if it weren't for the chill of the floor underneath him, he would have never chosen to get up again.

Most importantly though, the burning in his skin, the need for escape from the edge of the abyss that threatened his gut and heart and fucking _soul_, it was finally quiescent again . . . at least for now.


End file.
